


We Didn’t Stop Together

by ophanem



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:02:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophanem/pseuds/ophanem
Summary: For a moment, Vivi thinks of something the Black Mages from Black Mage Village would’ve said to each other.It must be cold for Puck down there,he ruminates.When he comes back up, I’ll wash him off. We can go swim in Alexandria’s rivers and feed Kupo Nuts to the moogles.But Puck is dead.





	We Didn’t Stop Together

**Author's Note:**

> ya yeet
> 
> the parts in this fic skips around a lot in terms of time period, im not too strict on this shit yo

_Crunch._

_Crunch, crunch, griiiiind._

_Spit. Splat._

Vivi feels something shrivel up and die inside of him. No—to be more accurate, some part of him is crushed into pieces, ground into broken parts, and spat out in a wad of saliva and blood. Watching Puck’s dismantled body spasm inside of the beast’s mouth before being launched, limp, from his lips right beside Vivi... staring at Puck’s widened, blank eyes despite Zidane yelling at him, terrified, to turn away... reaching out to Puck’s mangled hand with half a morbid mind to straighten out the fingers twisted the wrong direction...

His face feels hot like fire, except it feels as if lava is pouring out of every place it can on his head. There’s an awful ringing, screeching, and grinding in his head—that sickening _crunch!_ —that just won’t go away, and, with only one glance at Freya, Vivi realizes what new thing he feels as he slams his staff against hard shell.

Rage. Pure, unbroken rage releases itself in a flurry of Fira raining down upon the Antlion, and Vivi ignores the roars it gives and the fear it must feed to the Cleyrans because Puck is dead in the worst way possible and Vivi can’t think of anything else to do except beat and burn and scorch and set aflame to everything that brought Puck into such a sorry state.

And he knows he’s not alone.

Occasionally, through openings of his Fira, he sees a swift downward spear and flashing red, and it’s Freya, the Dragon Knight, who was supposed to protect her kingdom and her people and not only had she failed oh-so-miserably, but also did she stand by and witness her beloved little friend die in the jaws of this ugly mug of a beast.

His anger doesn’t go unbuffered. The beast is limp and wailing, but Vivi and Freya do not relent to a monster, and soon, Zidane is pushing tear-stricken Vivi to his chest and pulling wet-angered Freya into an embrace. Quina checks the monster, reassures it is over, and supports Zidane, standing in a way that blocks Puck from Freya and Vivi’s view.

The two sob until a Burmecian soldier and a Cleyran attendee, both bickering with each other already, inform the party of the removal of the body.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t give you a better burial,” Vivi murmurs under his breath as he crouches before the grave. “I wish we could’ve, but Alexandria is coming...”

He, for now, sits alone before the gravestone, staring at its poorly etched letters: _Puck Belligerence, 1785-1800._ He can barely read the letters of Puck’s name. Belligerence. Behll-lih-jer-renss. It’s weird, but Vivi Ornitier is just as weird.

”I should’ve done something back with the Antlion. I should’ve just started attacking it. Maybe it would’ve eaten me instead.”

It is uncomfortable to be greeted by silence. What would Puck do if he were here? He would snap at Vivi, telling him to stop talking about stupid stuff like that and move on, probably. And Puck would know that Vivi wouldn’t answer, but rather sit closer if he could. If Puck could’ve even been here.

“How is it? That’s weird. I’m sorry. I know you know about how scared of dying I am, and... I guess now you’ve got your wish true. You can give me hints about the afterlife now.”

He waits patiently. The whisper of the wind chills his spine, but it is not Puck, and he will ignore it in favor of Puck.

“You’re probably telling me I think too much,” Vivi mentions nervously. “I do.”

For a moment, Vivi thinks of something the Black Mages from Black Mage Village would’ve said to each other. _It must be cold for Puck down there,_ he ruminates. _When he comes back up, I’ll wash him off. We can go swim in Alexandria’s rivers and feed Kupo Nuts to the moogles._

But Puck is dead. He knows this. So why does he still sit here, despite Zidane and Freya and Quina’s voices in the far distance, calling for him?

”... I should... see you later.”

 

* * *

 

The dead of Burmecia and Cleyra were never given gravestones or burials. They fell under sky and broken, scorched stone where their last breaths became their rest. There were no tears shed for long cold bodies under the freezing dirt because these bodies were still lost in the tons of sand of Cleyra’s sandstorms and the burning fires of Burmecia’s torment. Not even a single stone marker gave titles to the names of the dead, whether they be Reid, Troy, Cleo, Ke’au, Winona, or Kraven.

Or Barnannes, the late king of Burmecia.

And all of these names and many more were lost under the footsteps of mindless soldiers, the footfall of such crushing their legacies deeper and deeper into the earth.

The only indicating existence of Burmecians and Cleyrans alike is a small, chipped gravestone jammed ontop of a hastily, yet gingerly, dug grave. This grave is situated in a secret nook inside of a gigantic, hollow, dead tree where Cleyra used to be housed. 

It is at this grave where Zidane’s party—well, mostly Vivi and Freya—found their comfort in times of gingerness. Whenever they could, they visited the grave, not just to honor the young soul within in, but to relieve their own troubles unto the rock.

Steiner often spoke out loud to himself and it, rambling on and on about the duties of a knight such as himself and how he must set aside his own feelings to fulfill those duties. And yet, he wonders, if his duties are to be fulfilled at the cost of life, is it truly beyond his control? He never found the answers from the grave, but it never scrambled his thoughts, either.

Quina never delved too deep into topics, but once in a while, Quina stuck a piece of a dish into the dirt. Most times, Quina brought sweets with them, like Lindblum’s Candied Oglops or Madain Sari’s ancient Salt of Stone recipe. “Here,” Quina would say after gifting. “You try.” (As much as it disappointed Quina and as much as it pained him, Zidane would always dig up the sandy leftovers and toss them out to winged scavengers awaiting outside the tree.)

Dagger fretted, in all honesty, but in a good way. She nervously confessed the crimes of Brahne, the newfound power of eidolon summoning within her, her appreciation and admiration of her companions, Steiner’s development, and her own fears for herself. She confessed as if Alexandria castle’s private priest were buried in the spot before her, and even with the terror of the thought in mind, she felt her anxiety falter little by little for every word out of her mouth.

Although they had never met the deceased before, Amarant and Eiko could never help but confront the grave as well. They went together, mostly because Eiko couldn’t stand the idea of a ghost possibly speaking to her, and frankly, as far as she was concerned, neither could Amarant. (Sometimes, Zidane would peek on their visits just to hear the two chirping harmonious lullabies together—Eiko with her humming, songbird voice and Amarant with his baritone follow. He wants to use this as blackmail, but Eiko would hate him for that, and he’s considerably afraid of what Eiko can do.)

Zidane perches himself ontop of the gravestone and scolds the youngin buried under, but more often than not, when no one is looking or listening (except perhaps Freya. He trusts Freya with more than his life.), he murmurs thank yous for protecting Vivi, for accepting Vivi and becoming his friend before Zidane could because surely, if Vivi were to meet Zidane before Puck on that same day, it would be a disaster, between kidnapping the princess and babysitting such a kid.

Freya brought Burmecian trinkets whenever she came for consultation, though she refrained from wordiness. Never Cleyran, she had enough mind to know this graveowner would never want to be disgraced like that. Stone soldiers, steel helmets, little pocket knives that young Burmecians received from a young age. And also tiny handkerchiefs with beautiful images of the art of battle engraved. For the meager times she did speak, she thanked the long lost soul for reuniting her and her love. She mourns the buried one’s death, but visit by visit, she learns to do so less.

Not at all least, Vivi by far visited the most. He didn’t have very many gifts, though he tried to salvage whatever he could from battles and shops; whatever meager, unnecessary items he had in surplus, whether it be Kupo Nuts, Phoenix Pinions, or plain Chocobo feathers, Vivi left it by the gravestone. He had arranged a little, what Zidane calls it at least, shrine, complete with decorations of feathers and pebbles and a thin piece of bark. In this wood were the words ‘Rat Kid’ scorched into its smoothest side. Naturally, the tiny branding was done by Vivi’s Fire, which was immensely tedious, but worth it, and surely, from beyond the grave, the buried boy was cursing Vivi’s name, for jokes or not.

He is not sure why, but after witnessing Bobby Corwen’s birth at Black Mage Village, he thinks Puck could use a little life, too. And so, to Zidane and Freya’s surpises, Vivi visited the grave with a shovel, seeds, and a bag of dirt and told them that his magic spell, Water, would probably feed the plants “for centuries!” (Zidane and Freya aren’t too educated on the nutritional value of magical water, but they would rather face the consequences of dehydrated dandelions than see Vivi’s downtrodden face.)

And thus, one of few remaining Burmecian-native dandelions bloomed in the sands of Cleyra’s hollow tree. Their seeds rooted in the same sand of the fallen protective sandstorm and soon became a field of the dandelions inside of the tree itself. Everytime they would visit, dandelion fluff would cling to their equipment, and Vivi and Eiko would gather bundles of dandelion fluff and toss them over Zidane’s head.

There came a time when they all had to leave, though, when Zidane’s team couldn’t come back anymore because they had more to live and more to become.

And when that time came, Vivi sat by the grave and smiled and watched them go one-by-one. And he patted the dirt over the grave, now well kept and covered warmly with dandelion fluff. And he twiddled his fingers, murmuring quietly and slowly to the vastness of the tree that didn’t actually feel empty. And when the wind stopped blowing through the sands of the tree, Vivi stopped, too.

**Author's Note:**

> yeet i would say more but its 3am


End file.
